The decision to write about it,
Well, thank God, the blank page does scream against it,
And the curmudgeon’s instinct to destroy it churns,
But that’s okay today
Because the instinct’s brow-beaten cousin, you know the type:
Show your work,
where’s the argument,
truth is math is truth is God—
And hey, didn’t the trains leaving at different times mean
You’ve arrived at your human destination?
You, the discounter,
You, the brittle disembarked, a little dehydrated
But buoyed by the tactile, or at least by the light,
By all means, the light!
The light that graces every Goddamned transition,
Made for you to use:
the fading, the gloaming, the rot in it, or not—
a space wherein meaning, or where what you mean you mean
Is a trick—
See it there it vanished.
Can you hang sincerity on this nail?
{gloaming::a-certain-slant::the-dim-bulb-rises::softly-something}
It shines on your behind,
This chain of thought, it carries your weight on its light back,
And it does the thinking for you.
But is this light?
Dear God, wrestle your first idea back to Yourself,
Wrestle it back from its clutching, swallowing nostalgia,
From its abuses, its meanings,
Close the blinds against creation,
And strike again the match
So that we can see.